


Where do I belong?

by KaiserKittenWalzer



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaiserKittenWalzer/pseuds/KaiserKittenWalzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disappointed and feeling left out, Michael finds some comfort in John, who tries to show him he has a place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where do I belong?

"I've decided. I want to make real money... With you."

Those were the last words Michael remembered telling Tommy before he finally took the plunge- the plunge into the real workings of the family: where the action was.

Tommy had some ideas to share with Michael right off of the bat. And that fact made Michael feel almost instantly as if he belonged. He realized now that Tommy had been expecting the subject all along, but that he'd been waiting to hear it from the horse's mouth.

But now, as happy as Michael should have been thinking back on that conversation, he wore nothing but a frown as he sat in his hard-backed chair, staring at a ledger. _After all that, and I'm still a fucking accountant_ , he thought, gripping his pen hard, as if he might channel some of his frustration into it.

"What's wrong with you then?"

Michael looked up as John sauntered into the room, his hands half-way down his overcoat's pockets, thumbs hooked over the seams. Michael noted the characteristic toothpick that hung from John's mouth. He supposed John thought it made himself look tough. Michael rather thought it made him look like an idiot, or a bumpkin at the very least.

"Nothing," Michael muttered, looking down at the ledger again.

"None of that now," John tutted as he sat himself down on the edge of the desk. He looked over his shoulder at Michael, who was still pretending to be preoccupied with some accounting detail or another.

Michael gave a long sigh and looked up at John with a face that said, _not now_ _._ John wasn't going to have it, though. This was only the second day since Tommy had entrusted Michael to his supervision and he wasn't going to let his newest employee start off in a bad way. It wouldn't look good, especially to Tommy who was starting to trust him with more responsibilities in Birmingham.

"Listen," John said, pushing himself up off the desk, "Why don't we go out tonight, eh? Esme's out of town, and I'm buying. And you'll let some steam off, I'll bet."

"Polly says I should only stick to a pint or two, and besides, I've got to be up to do all this again tomorrow morning. No," Michael scoffed, "No, I don't think it's a good idea." Michael shook his head as he buried his nose back into his books. His head jerked quickly up, however, at the harsh sound of John's voice which now sounded quite annoyed.

"Fuck that nonsense. You're allowed to have a little fun, and if you don't feel up to it tomorrow, then take the morning off." Michael tensed as John came 'round his chair and placed his hands on his shoulders, squeezing them gently. "Relax, mate. You don't have to take everything so seriously," he heard John say.

Michael was about to speak, but then had to clear his throat. There was no point in arguing it, and he supposed there were worse things than having a boss who encouraged him to be irresponsible. "Alright," he conceded.

"'Atta boy! See you later!" John exclaimed, slapping Michael's shoulders. Michael continued to look down at the ledger but stole a quick glance at John as he walked out of the room.

__

Several hours later and Michael was still hunched over his desk, busy finishing up the last of the day's bookkeeping. There was still more to do. There always was. Michael let out a sigh of resignation, though, and let the day's never-ending responsibilities escape with a breath that ended in the sound of the ledger making a thud as Michael closed it for the evening.

Michael lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, stretching his feet out, deep under the desk. He had no desire to go out. He just wanted something to eat and to go upstairs to bed. But Polly was in London, and Michael was ashamed to admit it to himself, but he didn't know the damned first thing about cooking.

Michael watched the ribbons of smoke, chiffon-breezed ghosts, float off that place between the ember and the still unspent part of the fag. He wondered, as he had a hundred times before, what it was he'd hoped to accomplish here. He'd felt trapped in his village. He thought he'd found freedom in his new life. And then he'd found that once again he felt trapped. It was as if he'd exchanged one cage for another in some naive attempt to escape the dread of suffocation.

He pondered the thought a moment longer as he continued to stare at the cigarette he'd already given up smoking by now. It was just the ember that caught his attention, as he watched it slowly work its way towards its cotton-butt-terminus. Michael's trance-like haze was dispelled, however, at the sound of the door, and he quickly stamped the fag out in the ashtray and tried to make as if he were busy with something pressing as John strode in.

"Right," said John, putting on his cap as he peered out the front windows, "Where are we off to then?"

"Why not The Adelaide, down the street?" Michael suggested as he rose to fetch his overcoat from the stand in the corner.

"Sure," John said distractedly, "It's your big day."

Michael snorted, shaking his head. "When isn't it?" he asked sarcastically, as he reached for his hat. John didn't seem to notice the flippant reply.

A brief walk in the chilly night, trailed by puffs of cigarette smoke, and the two found themselves with beers and a bottle of whiskey, Irish, sitting at a table by the wall. Michael examined the wood paneling next to his chair. It had been a long time since he'd sat by a window in any establishment. That was one of the first no-no's Tommy had taught him when he'd moved to Birmingham.

"So what's got you down, eh?"

Michael turned his attention back to John who was busy pouring whiskey into two shot glasses.

"What makes you say I'm down?" Michael asked.

John smirked as he set down the bottle, "Are you saying you're not?"

Michael gazed down at the table, somewhat ashamed at how obvious he'd been. Part of him wondered, though, if he'd ever cared about hiding his frustration. Maybe being called out was exactly what he'd wanted the whole time.

"It's just..." he started, before trailing off.

"Just what?" John pushed.

"It's just that I told Tommy I was ready to start working for the family, that I was really ready to get involved, you know?"

"You are involved. What are you talking about?" John asked. He sounded exasperated.

"Then why I am I still doing bookkeeping?" Michael asked.

"Because you're good at it."

Michael scoffed, leaning forward over the wood table. His hand that had been wrapped around his beer mug slowly raised the vessel to his lips. John could see the slow boil of discontent behind his eyes.

"Do you think it's easy?" Michael heard John ask.

Michael gulped, as he set the mug down, "Do I think what's easy?"

"Being the youngest brother? Getting left in Birmingham? Being forced into an arranged fuckin' marriage with some gypsy I never met?"

"Esme isn't just some gypsy, for Christ's sake man, she's your wife. Don't you love her?" Michael asked, exasperated.

"What if I didn't?" John asked, "Is it so much to ask that I can be honest about how I feel? I never asked for this."

Michael nodded in a reluctant sort of way as John picked up his shot glass and emptied it. "Don't get me wrong," John said as he set the glass down with a sharp tap, "She's a good wife, and she's beautiful. But..."

"You can't see yourself spending your life with her?" Michael said, trying to complete his thought.

John shook his head, "I just can't say I love her is all. I can see my life with her, if that's what's good for the family. As long as we respect the nature of our relationship."

"Do you think she sees it that way too?"

"I don't know," John admitted. "She may seem it, but she's not stupid. Don't ever mistake her for that." John reached for the whiskey bottle. Michael downed his shot to make room for another as John poured. "As long as I provide for her, eat her meals with a smile, and give her a right good fucking once a week, we'll be fine."

"That seems a rather dreary affair, surely?" Michael asked, unable to keep from displaying his distaste.

"Less than a fairy tale and you call it dreary? Wake up, mate. Life's not like that."

He paused a moment, "Do you still believe in true love?" John asked.

He wore a slight grin that seemed out of place below a pair of eyes which seemed something teetering between hopeful and defeated.

"Perhaps," Michael hesitated. "The world is full of strange things, even something perhaps so rare as true love. Or at the very least, honest love."

John arched his eyebrows for the briefest of moments, as if a thought had passed into his head before being quickly shooed away by his skeptical disposition on the topic, "Maybe the world is full of strange things, as you call them. Maybe it's even full of good and happy things. But surely none of them were meant for me."

"What bothers me, John, is that those are my sentiments exactly, and yet to hear you speak them makes it all sound so terribly depressing. To be honest, I'd like to tell you it will sort itself out, but I'm not sure if I'd be telling you that for your comfort or for mine."

"Maybe both," said John.

"One could dare to hope," Michael whispered before a brief silence settled between them.

"Should we head home?" John asked.

"Let's have another first," Michael said.

"I won't argue with that kind of logic," said John as he raised his glass.

___

"You should be patient," slurred John as he closed the door to his bedroom. They'd most decidedly stayed for more than one night cap before finally taking their leave of the pub.

"Fuck patience," Michael blurted out sloppily. John laughed.

Michael furrowed his brow, "What?"

"You're not one to usually debase himself with such language, Mr Prim-and-Proper," he said, his pinkie finger outstretched, as if holding a cup of tea. "Maybe we've been a bad influence on you after all."

"Maybe you are, but if swearing is the extent of the likeness between us, I don't believe I feel like one of you," Michael said, sitting on the edge of John's bed.

"And that's what you really want, isn't it? You want to feel like one of us?" John asked, sitting down beside him, "And you want to fight, don't you? You want to get into it- break a nose, glass someone, bust off a chair leg and play cricket with someone's knees. Is that it?" John asked.

"I just want to feel like I'm making a difference. That I'm not sitting on the sidelines all the time, like I'm too precious to risk," Michael said softly, before he gave a small grunt of frustration.

"And you want to make real money, don't you?" asked John, with a grin, "That's what you told Tommy, wasn't it?"

Michael chuckled a little, "Well money doesn't hurt, does it? I suppose I just want to feel like I'm going somewhere," his face briefly lit up with the words, before resuming its forlorn demeanor.

John put his arm around Michael's shoulder and shook him gently, "I know you want to fight, Michael. No doubt you will. But we all have our strengths, and right now," John scoffed, "You're no fighter in that sense."

Michael jerked away, "I'd take on anyone for the family."

John smiled and slapped his hand on Michael's leg, causing him to wince. "I know you would, truly I do. But just because you would doesn't mean you can," he said, "I could clock you inside of five seconds, Michael, and I don't say that to boast, just to be honest. But remember, there's a lot that goes on behind the scenes. It's not all rough-and-tumble and thuggery."

John got up from the bed and went over to what little remained in the whiskey bottle. He divided it between two glasses, and offered one to Michael. "Tommy didn't get to be where he is because he's the best in a fistfight," he said, "He got where he is because of what's in his head. There's different ways to fight, and he sees a lot of himself in you. If you can't see why that makes you so valuable, then maybe he's wrong about you."

Michael's head dipped at the words.

There was a slight pause between them, and then Michael gave a hopeful smile and raised his glass, and they both downed what had been the last of the whiskey.

"It's getting late," he said.

John nodded.

"I should probably go."

"It's cold in here," John sniffed, kicking his heel at the floor. His hands were stuffed into his pockets as he looked nowhere in particular.

"I suppose it might be the same in my room," Michael replied.

"I'd guess as much," John said, clearing his throat.

"Well maybe, if you'd like, we could share a bed tonight. Just to stay warm. Since Esme's away," Michael suggested haltingly.

"Since Esme's away," John nodded, as he removed his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt.

"I'll be right back," Michael said, as he made his way to the door.

"What? Where are you going?"

"To change."

John rolled his eyes.

Michael came back a moment later dressed in blue and white striped pyjamas. The sight of it made John laugh. "Cute," he said, as he patted the bed. Michael walked over and lifted the blanket to get underneath, getting a glimpse of John who was laying on his side, clothed only in a pair of button up pants.

"Aren't you cold?" Michael asked.

"I won't be if you ever get in here some day," John said, feigning annoyance.

Michael pretended to scowl as he crawled in. He lay down on the other side of the bed and turned onto his side as well, his back facing John.

"That's better isn't it?" he heard John say.

"Mhmm," Michael murmured. He was beginning to feel drowsy, and apparently, so was John by the sound of his voice, "You know, I wouldn't worry about it all. You're part of the family, and I think Tommy's got big plans for you. For both of us, actually. Besides, I'll be here to show you the ropes, how to be a tough guy, just like you always wanted."

Michael smirked, "I can take care of myself," he said, trying to stifle a yawn.

"If you mean take care of yourself with hair products and essential oils, then yes, I'd agree with that," John laughed.

"Hey!" Michael exclaimed suddenly. He twisted around and punched John in the arm before turning back over, and curling up as John began to tickle him in retaliation, "Just a scrappy little fellow, aren't you?"

A few minutes later and the silence of late evening crept between the two of them. The next yawn Michael couldn't stifle. He was asleep in moments.

Michael opened his eyes some hours later. The sun was streaming through the slits in the shutters. It wasn't as cold now. He gazed at the gentle light that illuminated the armoire by the wall, and then he noticed something. John's arm was draped over him, holding him by the waist. The two had evidently moved much closer to one another in the night. Michael wasn't entirely sure what to do at first. But he quickly yawned again, and decided that perhaps he could sleep a while longer. He closed his eyes, not bothering to change anything about it at all. He felt comfortable. He felt like he belonged there.


End file.
